


I Think I'm Losing My Religion

by Pokeydotes



Series: It's the Little Things, Dude [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:35:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21724606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pokeydotes/pseuds/Pokeydotes
Summary: Growing up didn’t mean you made less mistakes, it just meant you were more aware of them.And it sucked.Or Spider-Man meets the God of Thunder and occasionally remembers how to smile.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: It's the Little Things, Dude [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565779
Comments: 14
Kudos: 336





	I Think I'm Losing My Religion

“I just want it on the record that the internet thinks I’m funny,” Flash declared proudly. He held up his phone so Peter could see. “I’ve gotten over a thousand Likes. I’m hilarious. It’s canon.”

“It’s not called canon when you’re talking about real life,” Peter pointed out, pushing the phone out of his face, “It’s just called reality. And you just posted a video, it doesn’t mean you’re funny.”

Peter was starting to hate social media. He was starting to hate a lot of things, actually. Maybe _hate_ was a strong word. Unhappy perhaps? Yes, he was unhappy with a lot of things.

He was annoyed with his teachers and their relentless need to overload him with homework. He was tired of everyone treating him like a child. He knew he was young, but the ever present need to shelter him, ordering him to take a back seat, the constant reminder that the adults were talking…it was getting old.

May was swinging left and right between happy, loving, carefree aunt to dictator who wanted to control each and every little aspect of Peter’s life to the point that he couldn’t leave his bedroom, let alone the apartment without informing her where he was going, who he was going with, what time he’d be back, did he have his phone, was it fully charged, did Stark know about this, were his shoelaces tied, before kissing him gently on the forehead and saying “have a good day, sweetie.”

And he was beyond done with Flash and his freaking phone and the video he’d posted of Spider-Man honest to god _twitching_ after a paranoid tourist from Hicksville had read too many Facebook posts about the big bad city and thought a proper way to show his appreciation for a guy saving him from certain death was to jam a taser in the hero’s ribcage and scream while releasing 50,000 volts.

“Are you pouting, Parker?” Flash was smirking, and Peter could hear the telltale _shlclick_ of his phone going off as he took a screen shot. “Maybe if you started posting videos of your good pal Spider-Man, people would love you too.”

Peter gritted his teeth and grabbed his milkshake.

Unhappy.

“Who invited you again?” MJ asked. She was sitting across from Peter, her arms folded on the table with an impressively bored look on her face.

Flash frowned. “You did.”

MJ frowned back. “That doesn’t sound right.” She looked to Peter and quirked her brow in question. “Did I invite him?”

“It was more of an open invitation,” Peter pointed out, “You said anyone on the team who wanted to study, and well...” he shrugged.

MJ closed her eyes in resignation. “Yeah, that sounds right.” She sighed and looked back down at her text book.

It wasn’t necessarily the best place to study but they had an all you can eat pizza bar and served the best strawberry milkshakes in Queens.

Also, the owners didn’t mind when seven teenagers pushed together three tables to spread out an impressive array of notecards, worksheets, textbooks, and double pepperoni extra cheese pizza slices.

Peter didn’t even know why he was here. He wasn’t paying attention, he wasn’t contributing, he wasn’t even eating.

His pizza sat to the side, grease seeping through the cheap paper plate to soak through his calculus notes. He took another sip of his milkshake.

Peter was unhappy and he didn’t know if there was even a reason. Sometimes it felt like there were too many reasons, too many things taking their turn to add to the crap fest that was turning into Peter’s life.

Other times Peter couldn’t even pinpoint what was wrong. He’d just sit on the edge of his bed, forehead creased as he tried to catalog what he was feeling, tried to identify exactly what was causing that worrying pit of anxiety to act up only to come up empty.

Then there were times like now when Peter knew exactly what was weighing him down.

Ned was sitting on Peter’s left, his phone out, the muted video of Spider-Man shakily trying to pull taser barbs out of his side playing out on the screen.

“Dude,” Peter muttered, putting his milkshake on the table.

Ned looked up, eyes wide as he hurried to put his phone away. “Sorry.”

Peter was officially done with the day. He closed his textbook, pushed the pizza off his notebook, and caught a highlighter before it fell to the floor. He grabbed his phone and was just about to reach around for his bag when MJ kicked him lightly under the table.

“Peter?” she asked. She was watching him, face pinched in confusion as he gathered his things. A quick glance to the side showed Ned and Cindy doing the same. The only one not paying attention to him was Flash, which was fine with Peter.

Peter opened his mouth, realized he didn’t really know what to say, and closed it again, because seriously, what was he supposed to say? _Flash hurt my feel bads and now I want to go home_?

Yes, that would go over splendidly.

“Are you leaving?” Ned asked, looking guilty as fuck and Peter realized Ned probably thought Peter was pissed he’d been watching the video.

He was a little.

But not enough to bail on him.

No, Peter’s desire to run away started long before he walked into Rao’s Pizzeria.

Peter thought things would change the older he got, that he’d make less mistakes, that he wouldn’t care what people thought of him. He thought he’d become a better superhero. That he’d just be better in general.

Growing up didn’t mean you made less mistakes, it just meant you were more aware of them.

And it sucked.

But he couldn’t exactly explain that to his friends.

Luckily he didn’t have to because his phone chose that exact moment to _ping,_ and given the choice between looking at Ned’s misery, MJ’s quiet judgment, or his phone…

It was a text message from Mr. Stark. “ _Just go with it_ ;)” it said. Nothing else. What the hell?

“Holy shit,” Flash whispered, and when Peter looked up it was to find Flash gaping at the restaurant’s entrance with a look of surprised awe.

MJ gave Peter’s shin another kick and gestured to the door. Frowning, Peter forgot his phone and looked over his shoulder.

Natasha Romanov was walking towards them. She was dressed in jeans and a loose fitting top, her hair pushed back by the pair of sunglasses she had resting on top of her head. The goal was to probably blend in with any other woman on the street, and she probably would have. Except that the table was full of teenagers in the full swing of puberty who had grown up in the age of the Avengers and it was going to take more than hair dye and knitted cotton to camouflage the Black Widow.

She squinted around the room, her eyes slowly scanning each table until they fell on Peter.

“Hey kid,” she greeted, offering a crooked smile as she sauntered towards the table. “Up for a ride?”

She held up a bike helmet and gestured towards the window. As one, all seven members of the decathlon team turned their heads and looked out the window on the far wall where a sleek, black motorcycle was parked at the meter.

“Holy shit,” Flash repeated, and Peter was thinking the same thing.

But he had enough sense not to voice it out loud. “What are you doing here?” Peter asked instead, which, okay, maybe that wasn’t any better. It definitely wasn’t better, especially not with the panicky tremble his voice decided to do.

Natasha’s face morphed into this weird expression of confusion and worry with an uncertain half-smile tossed in for good measure. She cast a quick glance around the table and hesitantly said, “Tony said the internship wasn’t a secret.”

“Holy shit.” Flash was stuck on repeat.

“Shut up, Flash,” Ned whispered, but boy did he sound happy.

And Natasha, bless her, smiled warmly and said, “Hey, Ned. How’ve you been?”

“Never better,” Ned beamed. Literally beamed with a wide, toothy smile and everything as Flash sat slack jawed one seat over.

Peter ignored them both. “This is about the internship?” he asked, remembering a moment later that Tony had sent a text.

Just go with it.

Natasha’s smile was now directed at Peter, her eyes widening slightly, hintingly, begging Peter to just play along. “There’s a meeting this evening, and he’d like you there.”

“Holy shit.”

Natasha frowned as she looked towards Flash.

“Ignore him,” Peter said, already stuffing his books into his backpack. “Why are---why are you picking me up? I mean…not that I’m not pleased to see you again, I just—“

“He was going to send Happy, but I was in the neighborhood.” Natasha was gifted in that she could cut off someone’s nervous and adrenaline fueled rambling without sounding rude.

Happy could take a lesson.

“You ready?” she asked, handing him the helmet.

“Totally,” he answered tightening his backpack straps and pulling the helmet over his head. He didn’t bother hiding his smile as Flash’s final “holy shit” followed him out the door.

* * *

When Natasha said there was a meeting, Peter had expected something like he’d seen on TV, where adults crammed into a conference room and stared at charts and graphs until someone eventually died of boredom--only instead of suits and ties there would be shields and guns and blasters.

What he got was an impromptu pizza party masquerading as a meet and greet.

Apparently, the God of Thunder was back in town…on planet…whatever.

Thor’s laughter was deep and strong and exactly what Peter dreamed it would be. It was the first sound he heard when he stepped off the elevator and it echoed down the hall as he rounded the corner.

The living area was like something out of a fanboy’s dream. Tony Stark was perched on the counter, his feet propped on a nearby stool, head thrown back as he laughed at whatever had just been said.

Rhodey and Pepper Potts were standing to the side, sharing a look of light hearted commiseration as they rolled their eyes.

Captain America was balancing a stack of pizza boxes, smiling as Clint Barton and Sam Wilson fought for the last piece of sausage and pepperoni.

Bruce Banner was sitting on the couch watching everyone with a reserved look of amusement as he steadily picked the olives off of his pizza. He looked to be stacking them in a neat little pile on the coffee table.

Thor himself was standing in the middle of everyone. His hair was pulled back in the messiest man bun Peter had ever seen, and holy crap the muscles. It was just an estimate but Peter was fairly certain Thor’s left bicep was bigger than Peter’s head. The man was beaming, arms spread wide as he finished off a story, the tiny beer bottle he held sloshing with each grand gesture.

Add to that the fact that Peter had just spent half an hour clinging to the Black Widow’s waist as she sped through Saturday afternoon traffic—yeah, Peter was actually feeling a bit giddy.

“Save me any?” Natasha asked, grabbing a box from Steve Rogers and effectively drawing everyone’s attention. Only the attention didn’t necessarily linger on _her_.

Peter smiled awkwardly, sweaty palms gripping the straps of his backpack as the Avengers all looked his way, expressions ranging from welcoming smiles to baffled confusion.

Peter waved.

Awkward.

But still awesome.

“Ah, you’re here,” Tony declared jumping off the counter. He grabbed a soda, slapped Thor on the arm and gestured to Peter. “Kid, meet Thor. Thor, this is the kid.”

“Peter Parker,” Peter elaborated as he extended his hand, silently hoping Thor didn’t take to calling him ‘the kid’, and whoa, were his hands big.

Thor smiled politely, shaking Peter’s hand as he studied him, clearly confused by his presence. “And what do you do here?”

“He’s Stark’s mentee,” Natasha explained. She’d made herself comfy on the couch, feet propped up next to Bruce’s forgotten olives.

Thor frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means Tony adopted a kid,” Clint added, pulling pepperoni from his pizza and stuffing them in his mouth.

“Oh!” Thor’s eyes widened as he looked down at Peter. He gave an approving nod and clapped Peter on the shoulder with enough force that Peter felt his knees shake and declared, “Welcome to the family.”

“Uh, What, no…” Peter began, shaking his head, “that’s not what that…” and okay, Thor was actually adorable when he smiled like that, all round cheeks and squinty eyes, “…thanks,” Peter finished with a baffled smile of his own.

Holy shit, indeed.

For the first time in a while, Peter was laughing, smiling, and generally enjoying himself. Unlike with the others, Peter had no problem asking Thor for a selfie, and Thor had no problem agreeing.

In no time at all, Peter had a series of pictures he was sending to Ned: Thor making a peace sign, Thor with crossed eyes as he stuck out his tongue, Thor smiling like a giant puppy, Thor looking completely flabbergasted as Peter took off his shoes and stood on the ceiling.

“Oh yeah,” Tony muttered distractedly around a mouthful of pizza, “the kid’s like half spider. He can stick to things.”

Unlike everyone else in Peter’s life, Thor didn’t question it. He didn’t demand to know what happened, didn’t seem to be interested in hearing all about how Peter got bit by a spider, or why he had chosen to fight crime.

Thor just sort of accepted it.

And unlike everyone else in Peter’s life, Thor didn’t seem bothered by the fact that Peter was still two months away from his sixteenth birthday.

Thor was quickly climbing the ranks on Peter’s list of favorite Avengers, and when May texted him wanting to know where he was, Peter sent her one of his and Thor’s selfies as an explanation—proof that he wasn’t currently dead in a gutter (and also as an incentive to get her to start talking about someone other than Steve Rogers, because lets be real, Peter might not know a lot about his aunt’s taste in men but if there was anyone that could knock Captain America off the top spot of May’s list of crush worthy superheroes, it was an actual, literal god.)

“You gonna crash here or do you want Happy to bring you home?” Tony asked hours later. The “party” had eventually died down, everyone slowly getting pulled away by one thing or another until it was just Peter, Tony, and Clint.

And Thor, but he was currently asleep on the couch.

“I don’t know,” Peter answered. He ran his fingers through his hair, winced as he snagged a few knots, and looked around. The room was a mess. Empty cups, beer bottles, and pizza boxes were strewn over almost every surface. Peter’s socks and shoes were still tucked under the coffee table, his hoodie was currently balled up under Thor’s head as a makeshift pillow. Peter had a strong desire to pull out his phone and take another picture. He texted May instead.

_okay if i spend the night?!!?!_

_no superheroing?_

_no superheroing. just bed._

_then yes, you cn spend th enight_

“Do you think he does this on purpose?” Clint asked. Peter looked up from his phone to see Clint frowning at his jacket. It was lying on the counter, the sleeve trapped beneath Mjolnir, and wasn’t that just freaking awesome.

“Thor,” Tony yelled, grabbing a forgotten piece of pizza crust and tossing it towards the couch. “Come get your shit.”

Thor’s only response was to quietly lift his left hand and extend his middle finger into the air.

“Definitely does it on purpose,” Clint muttered. He reached out and poked the hammer’s handle.

“You wanna give it a go?”

Peter turned to Tony. “What?”

Tony nodded to the hammer, one corner of his mouth lifting in a playful smile. “Do you want to see if you can lift it? Find out if you’re ‘worthy’ or whatever?”

Peter looked to the hammer and back to Tony. “Can I? I mean—“ he looked to the couch and the still dozing Thor—“Is that allowed?”

“Go for it,” Thor mumbled, raising his head sleepily.

Peter had a replica of Mjolnir at home. It was smaller than the real thing. And plastic. It weighed nothing and looked like it belonged on the toy aisle of the local pharmacy.

The real thing though…

Peter could feel the power, the magic, the—whatever it was radiating from the hammer as he approached it. He felt the hairs on his arms stand on end as he reached out, felt a tingle run down his spine as he grabbed the handle, the power positively thrumming as the spider inside reacted in excitement.

“You’ve gotta put your back into it,” Tony warned. “Two hands.”

Thor gave him an encouraging smile.

Peter pulled. His knuckles turned white, his shoulders strained, but it didn’t move. He let the handle go, popped his neck, and shook out his arms.

The others were all smiling now, and when Peter stuck both feet to the side of the cabinet for leverage and pulled again, Clint actually laughed.

The laughter stopped the moment Mjolnir moved.

It wasn’t a lot. Peter didn’t lift it, but it definitely budged.

Peter looked up to meet Tony’s wide eyes. “Do it again,” Tony encouraged, tone no longer playful as he stared at the hammer, surprised eyes slowly narrowing in concentration, like Mjolnir was something to study.

Thor was standing now, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched Peter expectantly.

Peter tightened his grip, flexed his toes against the cabinet doors, and pulled.

Nothing happened.

“It moved before,” Peter whispered, letting go and dropping back down to the ground. He rubbed at his strained shoulder and looked to Thor.

Thor was frowning. He didn’t necessarily look unhappy, just…contemplative.

“You know, Parker,” he said, walking forward and lifting Mjolnir off the counter, “Only one other person has been able to do what you just did.”

“Fail?” Peter asked, and yeah, he sounded a little petulant, “Pretty sure that number’s a little higher than one.”

“Cap made it move,” Tony said. He still had that studious glare happening, only now it was directed at Peter, not the hammer. “Couldn’t lift it, but he made it move.”

“No one else even made it wiggle,” Clint added, snatching his jacket off the counter. “You definitely got a wiggle.”

Thor clasped Peter’s shoulder and gave a friendly (bruising), encouraging squeeze. He smiled, winked, and gave what Peter assumed was an approving nod.

Peter went to bed feeling numb. It was like his emotions were split down the middle. On one hand, he’d just spent half the day lounging around with the Avengers, made friends with an actual god, and made Mjolnir move, budge…wiggle.

On the other hand, he wasn’t worthy.

But then again, neither was anyone else.

It was a mix of euphoria and near tangible disappointment. He felt numb, the good and the bad cancelling each other out.

Neutral. 

* * *

Peter slept. He ate when he was hungry, went to school, patrolled. Wash, rinse, repeat.

It felt monotonous. Repetitive. Routine.

Days turned to weeks, and Peter was starting to think something was wrong with him. He used to spend his days in tense anticipation, counting down until the next adventure, heart thrumming with excitement.

Now he just went through the motions.

Happy called on occasion, prompting Peter, reminding him he was supposed to check in. Tony would send a text every now and then, a quick “are you still alive?” kind of thing. Peter always answered.

Some days Peter didn’t feel like going on patrol. Those days May would look at him, brow pinched, like she was torn between being glad he was home but worried because _why_?

Some days he just wouldn’t come home at all. He’d stay out all night, jumping from roof top to roof top. Once, when the numbness returned, Peter climbed as high as he could and jumped, waiting until the last minute to fire a web, hoping it’d elicit a feeling, an emotion, something.

It did. But it scared him more than anything.

He felt like a coin being flipped. He had no idea how he would feel from one moment to the next; heads you’re happy, tails you’re not.

Words like hormones, adolescence, and depression popped into his head on occasion. Peter ignored them.

If people noticed Peter wasn’t his usual self, they didn’t say anything, or at least nothing that couldn’t be dissuaded with a smile and a convincing “I’m fine.”

“Are you okay?”

“Have you been sleeping well?”

“Is everything okay at school?”

“Are patrols getting to be too much?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m fine,” he’d tell them, and he was. There wasn’t necessarily anything _bad_ happening. Peter sometimes came home with scrapes and bruises, the occasional dislocated shoulder or fractured wrist…but that was par for the course.

Compared to the past, things were looking pretty good.

Until they weren’t.

Anyone over the age of ten knew what a rift looked like. It was dark and threatening and full on reflected the end of the world.

It’d be cool if it didn’t hint at certain death.

May had begged him not to go.

Peter vaguely remembered a time when he might have listened to her.

Now, he just put on his suit, kissed her forehead and promised not to die.

“Nice of you to join us.” Tony smiled as Peter landed next to him. “You up for this?”

Peter had his head tilted back, his neck straining as he took in the dark spot hovering over the Wyndham Hotel. So far, he couldn’t see anything coming through it.

“What are we looking at?” he asked.

“Hopefully a misunderstanding,” Clint said, his voice filtering through comms as Karen linked in with the others. “I’ve got my fingers crossed a big ugly will come out, say whoops, wrong address, and then leave.”

The big ugly wasn’t really big, not really. He was bigger than a bread box, but smaller than the Hulk, so all in all, not the most troubling thing.

No, the trouble came from his minions, because everyone knew you couldn’t be the villain without a minion or two.

Or thousand.

Except these minions looked almost human, until Peter got up close and personal with one and realized they _were_ human. Their eyes were wide, pupils blown, and each reminded Peter of that video of a rabid dog that’d been passed around YouTube; teeth barred, breath hitching, movements jerky as their veins bulged black.

“Are they possessed?” Peter asked, webs shooting left and right, pinning the minions up, down, to the side of a car, around a street light.

“Mind control?” Clint suggested, and dude he was almost out of arrows.

“Infected,” Thor corrected. His tone made it clear it wasn’t a guess. “I have seen this before.”

“How do we fight it?” Steve asked.

“By fighting them.”

And that is not what Peter wanted to hear. He’d been hoping for a cure or something, an off switch, not death.

He had no idea where they’d come from, but it was clear they weren’t from New York. Their clothes were fitted for battle, their arms dark with markings and scars, and their weapons were definitely…foreign.

There were the standard blasters, lasers, guns that looked like they’d been pulled from a Tarantino film, and something that strangely resembled a light saber. Peter might have been excited by that were a guy not trying to full on Obi Wan him with the glowy end.

But those were easy to deal with. Peter had seen them before, even if not in person. No, what was new were the globs of black tar-like goo that one guy was shooting from an honest to god canon.

Peter was staying low, trying to stick close to Nat and Clint as they fought their way through the horde of infected, zombified killers. He saw the canon rise, saw where it was aiming, and darted forward, arm circling around Natasha’s waist just in time to pull her out of the way of a gelatinous glob of slick goo.

Nat was barely phased. She made a small _hmmph_ sound when Peter first picked her up, but she was already firing her guns again before they landed.

“What is that stuff?” Peter asked, watching as the goo morphed, growing, spreading slowly up the side of an SUV. It looked like it had a mind of its own.

“Not our biggest problem right now,” was Natasha’s answer. And yeah, the guys shooting at them, destroying 8th Avenue were definitely the bigger problem. Peter should probably focus on them.

Except that canon had good aim.

It hit him while he was in the air. That weird tickle he sometimes got when danger was near had been a near constant since the first shot had been fired, so when it flared, Peter wasn’t really sure what it was warning of.

He figured it out when the goo smacked him in the face.

His webbing snapped and he fell hard, landing on the debris strewn street with a loud and painful crack that knocked the air out of him. The goo was stretched from his chin to his nose. And. It. Was. Moving.

He took a deep breath, ignored Karen asking if he was all right, and reached up, fingers sinking into the mass of goo. It was like it was touching him back, wrapping itself around his fingers as it spread. Peter hastily pulled his hand away, but when he tried to sit up, he couldn’t.

The goo had spread past his ear, anchoring itself to the ground as it slowly sludged its way upwards, creeping towards his eyes.

“Karen,” Peter gasped as his fingers fumbled for the edge of his mask, only the goo had already reached his neck, blocking the edge. Peter’s panic began to grow the moment he felt a slick coldness start to seep through his mask and onto his skin. “Karen!”

“I have called for help, Peter” Karen said calmly, her tone soothing and reassuring. “Mr. Stark is aware of your situation.”

That was good, because Peter wasn’t really sure what his situation was. He knew he was trapped, his head cemented to the ground by a moldy alien flubber, the rest of his body spastically trying to get away.

Peter could taste it now, could feel the goo pushing into his mouth, sliding against his tongue. It reminded Peter of orthodontist visits and mouth molds and it made him want to gag.

Karen must have sensed it because she kindly pointed out that vomiting would not be ideal at the current moment. “Breathe through your nose, Peter.”

Which would be totally great advice if the goo wasn’t currently blocking Peter’s nostrils. “K’rn,” Peter choked out, his tongue barely able to move now. The goo was pushing forward, sliding below his lip, _feeling_ its way along his gum line and teeth.

The word “violated” popped into Peter’s mind, this one he couldn’t ignore.

He closed his eyes when he felt the goo pushing against his cheekbone, sliding over his left eye and blocking half his sight.

He was going to die. It was in his mouth, in his nose, it was blinding him. He couldn’t call for help, he couldn’t _breathe_. He could barely hear Karen’s voice, the sound of his heart pounding, the steady _whooshwhooshwhoosh_ blocking her out.

But then the goo shifted again, tightened, and now it was pulling at his mask, turning his head, holding his wrists and pushing them away.

Peter tried to fight.

“Damn it, kid! Hey look at me, look at me, Peter,” Tony was yelling, his voice hard, his grip harder. “You gotta quit moving, okay. I’ve got to—just stay still.”

Peter opened his right eye. Everything was fuzzy, dark, but he could see the Iron Man mask above him. Tony was trying to get Peter’s mask off, trying to pull the goo away, only he seemed to be having as much luck as Peter had.

Peter still couldn’t breathe.

He reached up, goo smeared fingers frantically sliding against the Iron Man armor, grasping at Tony’s arms.

His movements weren’t coordinated, they were weak, panicked, and Tony could tell.

“FRIDAY?” he barked, and a part of Peter’s brain, the part not currently freaking out because he was about to suffocate to death, realized FRIDAY was probably tracking his vitals.

He guessed they weren’t good because Tony suddenly started screaming. “I need help here! Somebody, I need--“ he lowered his voice, his tone still panicked but sounding more like he was thinking out loud, “--I need to get this off. How do I get this off?”

Peter blinked and suddenly Thor was leaning over him, his face angry as he spoke. Peter couldn’t hear him.

_Whooshwhooshwhooshwhoosh_.

And then Tony lifted his hand, and for one panicked moment Peter thought he was about to be shot in the face.

Instead, a high pitched, bone scraping, death rattling shriek tore through the air and Peter was no longer worried about suffocating—his head was going to explode before that happened.

He tried to scream, but with no air all that came out was a muffled and pained gagging sound.

Peter wasn’t even sure if he was still awake. Was he dead now? Is that what happened? He couldn’t see anything.

But he could still feel.

The goo was no longer moving. It had stiffened at the sound of the high pitched noise and now it seemed…unconscious? Dead?

Peter opened his one eye and saw Thor’s determined face sneer as he grabbed at Peter’s mask, uncaring of the goo clinging to his hands. There was a tug, a pull on Peter’s hair and then…

Blessedly cool air hit Peter’s skin as Thor _tore_ the mask from Peter, ripping the fabric from right temple to nose.

Peter blinked a few times, his one clear eye sluggishly going from Thor to Tony to Thor to Tony.

“We got you, kid. You’re okay,” Tony assured him, face plate lifting as he stuck his glove free fingers beneath the edge of the torn mask and pulled, taking the goo and a few strands of Peter’s hair with it.

Peter was limp.

He didn’t even try to help as Tony pulled the rest of the mask free, letting it drop to the ground with a heavy, _glump,_ wet sound.

Thor pulled Peter into a sitting position and placed his hand at the back of Peter’s neck, holding his head as Tony grabbed Peter’s chin and stuck his fingers in Peter’s mouth.

“Spit it out, Peter,” Tony ordered, nails scraping against Peter’s tongue as he pulled chunks of limp goo from Peter’s mouth. “Come on, kid.”

Thor reached forward and pressed his knuckle into Peter’s chest. “Breathe, Parker.”

And Peter did.

He took in a shaky, relieved gasp. And then another.

And then felt pieces of goo sticking to his throat. He coughed, gasped again, and then threw up--right in Thor’s lap, bits of black goo and undigested Lucky Charms splattering on Iron Man’s leg.

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Tony encouraged, one hand patting him on the back while the other pushed against his chest, holding him up.

Peter took in another shaky breath and looked up.

Thor was gone. Peter was vaguely aware of a _whum_ sound echoing amongst the crashes and bangs and yells, hinting that Mjolnir was on the loose.

“Tony? You good?”

Peter looked to his right to see Captain America standing a few feet away, acting as a shield between Peter, Tony, and the murderous minions.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Tony said, and without warning he grabbed Peter beneath his arms and carried him away.

Peter closed his eyes and went with it.

Not that he had any other choice.

He didn’t open his eyes again until he was being sat back down.

They were in an alley, still right in the thick of things. Peter was surprised.

“Look at me.” Tony was kneeling in front of Peter, his helmet off, his mouth pressed in a grim line.

“I’m fine,” Peter told him. It was a reflex now.

“You weren’t breathing,” Tony informed him, and yeah, he kind of knew that already. “Your lips were fucking blue.”

Okay, he didn’t know that.

“I’m breathing now,” Peter pointed out, and he took another deep breath just to emphasize the point. But also because it felt good. Like really good. He did it again.

“My mask—“

“I’ll get you another mask,” Tony cut him off. He reached out with both hands and grabbed Peter’s face, fingers cradling his head as Tony studied him, looking at his eyes, looking at his mouth. “Are you okay? You’re good?”

“I’m good.”

“For real good? Or are we talking that bullshit _I’m fine_ good you’ve been spoon feeding everyone the last few months?”

Peter took in another deep breath. “The first one.”

Tony stared at him a second, nodded, looked to the opening of the alley when the Hulk’s roar followed the sound of a loud crash, and then looked back to Peter.

“You stay here,” he said, grabbing his helmet and standing. “FRIDAY is monitoring your suit. Unless someone is trying to kill you, you do not leave this alley.”

Peter just took another deep breath and let his head lean back against the building. Tony was gone before Peter could think to argue.

His legs were stretched out before him, his arms laying limp at his sides. Without his mask and Karen he had no idea what was going on.

He took a few more deep breaths, waited until his hands stopped shaking and leaned forward around the dumpster and cardboard boxes blocking him from the alley’s entrance.

All he could see was a destroyed taxi and pile of rubble.

But he could hear everything.

People were still screaming, though now it was far away. There was gunfire, the occasional explosion, a symphony of sirens, and the frequent _whhuuum_ of Mjolnir flying from and to Thor’s hand. He could hear Tony’s blasters, Captain America calling orders.

He could hear a baby crying.

Peter was moving before he was aware of making the decision. It started as a crawl until he had the presence of mind to stand, his hands sticking to the wall as he pulled himself up.

He was fully aware he wasn’t wearing his mask. He could still feel bits of the goo clinging to his skin, matting in his hair. He ran his tongue along his lips and grimaced when he felt pieces stuck in the cracks of his chapped skin.

There wasn’t anyone left on the street to see his face. At least none that were alive, not where he was.

He could still hear the crying.

She was stuck in a car seat, the front of the car caved in enough from a chunk of fallen building that Peter knew better than to look in the front seat. She looked to be about two years old, maybe three. Her hair was parted down the middle, pulled up into two bushy buns. Her face was a mess of tears and snot, her cheeks darkened by all the crying, chubby fingers pulling at the harness holding her in her seat as she stuttered and hiccupped and screamed for her mommamommamomma.

“Hey, sweetie,” Peter greeted, which just caused her to scream more, “I’m gonna get you out. You’re okay.”

The door wouldn’t open, so Peter had to climb through the broken sunroof. She might have been terrified of him, but the moment he had her free, she was clinging to him for dear life.

Peter heard the now familiar _whum_ and turned in time to see Mjolnir land to his left, the sidewalk cratering beneath the force. When it didn’t move, Peter looked up. Thor was on the edge of the roof, his arm swinging as he wielded one of the minion’s light saber knockoffs.

It was kinda cool.

Definitely cool.

Any other time, Peter would have gladly stayed to watch, except he currently had a terrified toddler burying her face in his shoulder and wiping her snot on his neck. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeated, his voice automatically getting softer, lighter as he wrapped his arms around her. “We’re just gonna go hide for a little bit, okay? Iron Man found us a nice, safe alley. It’s oka—“

Something grabbed his ankle and pulled.

It was more instinct than quick thinking as Peter pivoted, cradling the little girl’s head, shifting enough to land on his back. He looked towards his ankle, fearing another glob of goo was trying to take him over.

It wasn’t goo, but it wasn’t much better either.

It was one of the bad guys, his teeth snarling as he reeled Peter in, pulling on the rope wrapped around Peter’s ankle.

“Oh shit, oh shit.”

He still didn’t have his mask, didn’t have a way to call for help, to let people know he had a _freaking baby_ in the middle of a warzone.

So he let instinct take over.

One arm tightened around the screaming kid, the other reached out, shooting a web onto the side of a large, dented SUV.

The minion kept pulling.

Peter was being stretched, his body off the ground. His shoulder was grinding, threatening to pop out of its socket as the rope tightened around is ankle, cutting off the blood supply.

The little girl was still screaming.

And the SUV was creaking.

Peter felt the give. At first, he thought his shoulder had finally popped, but then his eyes caught up with reality and he saw the door from the SUV shift once, twice, before being _ripped_ from its hinges.

The minion continued to reel them in.

“Oh shit, oh shit, ohshitohshitohshit.”

Peter fired another web at what looked like a piece of roof that had crumbled. It held for a moment, and then began to slide along the sidewalk. Peter released the web and looked around frantic.

Then he saw Mjolnir.

The minion was only a few yards away now. Peter’s ankle felt broken, his back bruised, his head throbbing. The little girl was now screaming for her daddy.

He sent out another web. It landed on the hammer’s handle, and Peter smiled.

The smile fell the moment Mjolnir moved.

_Whum_.

It flew straight into Peter’s hand, webbing tangled between his fingers and the handle.

The minion had reeled them in, it was clawing at Peter’s leg, growling as it dug its fingers in, leaving bruises and scrapes. It grabbed the little girl’s leg and her panicked screams turned to shrieks. It was going to kill them.

So Peter swung his arm.

Mjolnir connected with the minion’s head just above its right ear. He felt the bones give, heard the crack as its skull caved in. He saw the moment the snarling expression of rage fell, slackening as its eyes closed.

The minion crumbled, body falling heavy on Peter’s legs. Peter hurriedly pushed it off and climbed to his feet, panting as he stared down in horrified shock.

It didn’t look like a murderous minion anymore. It just looked like a dead man.

There was blood and bits of hair on Mjolnir.

Peter didn’t know how he felt, but he was feeling something.

He wished the numbness would return.

It didn’t.

But Tony did.

He landed hard in the street, faceplate lifting, eyes wide as he stared at Peter, and yeah, Peter knew he must be a sight. Face sweaty and smeared with bits of blood and drying black goo, a screaming kid perched on his hip and the bloody hammer of a god hanging at his side.

Peter watched as Tony took in everything, eyes going from the little girl to the dead minion before settling on Mjolnir.

Peter thought Tony would say something about leaving the alley, about not doing what he was told.

He didn’t.

All he said was a quiet, “I’ll be damned.”

* * *

Peter was sitting on the couch, left foot propped on the coffee table, his eyes staring unfocusedly at the icepack resting on his swollen ankle.

He’d brushed his teeth, showered, and let Tony and Bruce tend to his injuries. Now he was wearing borrowed clothes and waiting for his aunt to arrive.

They were all sort of moving on autopilot now, everyone looking like they’d caught whatever funk had been plaguing Peter for the last few months. It was quiet, still, eerie, and nowhere near the after battle adrenaline-fueled comradery Peter had expected.

He was grateful, he didn’t really feel up to any more excitement.

He pulled his hands into the sleeves of Tony’s oversized sweatshirt and wrapped his fingers around the cuffs. He could feel little drops of water dribble down his neck from his freshly washed hair to soaking up the collar.

He sniffed, winced at how loud it was, and kept not-staring at the icepack.

Tony had asked him if he was okay, gave him a look that said “I don’t believe you” when Peter said he was, and steered him towards the couch with an order not to move until his ankle healed.

He was currently hovering on the other side of the room, a phone stuck to his ear as he negotiated clean up from the attack. He and Peter both pretended Tony wasn’t keeping Peter within his line of sight, eyes worriedly looking over towards the couch every few minutes.

Peter sniffed again.

His eyes finally left the icepack when Thor set Mjolnir down on the coffee table inches away from Peter’s foot.

Peter looked at the hammer, noticed it’d been cleaned, and glanced up at Thor. He was staring down at Peter, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side, eyes narrowed in consideration.

“You’ve been deemed worthy,” he said. His voice was deep, rolling, and quiet, more of a rumble. Like thunder.

“Does that mean I get to keep your hammer?” Peter asked, surprised to feel the corner of his mouth quirk up in a half-grin.

Thor smiled, eyes crinkling. He shook his head, sighed, and sat down next to Peter. “I’m not sure what it means,” he admitted, “I’m still learning, I think. My definition of ‘worthy’ seems to change constantly.”

“Pretty sure I was the last person you expected to lift it.”

“When I first saw you, yes. But I think that had more to do with the fact that you’re so tiny,” Thor said, and okay, rude. “But then I heard the others talk about you, listened to what Stark had to say, and now...” he sighed again, “Now, I think I was wrong to be surprised.”

Peter looked over to Tony. His back was to them, facing the wall as he talked angrily to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

“I’m not really sure what he told you—“ Peter began, only to stop. Part of him wanted to ask what Tony had said, what he thought about him. But part of him was afraid to. What if it was bad? What if it was good, so good that there was no way Peter could ever live up to it?

_I was just trying to be like you._

_I want you to be better._

“I think Stark has great expectations for you. He seems to think you’ll be the best of us all,” Thor said, and Peter felt his stomach twist. “I say being deemed worthy by Mjolnir might have proved him right.”

Peter let his eyes drift from watching Tony only to find Thor staring at him with a soft smile.

“You said your definition of worthy changes,” said Peter, and Thor nodded. “How would you define it now?”

Thor sighed again, tilted his head back and studied the ceiling while he thought it through. “I think you have to be a hero,” he began. “Strong, determined. Willing to make sacrifices, to make the hard decisions. You have to realize it’s not all about you anymore, not about what you want but what you need to do. You have to be willing to admit when you’re wrong, acknowledge your weaknesses.”

Peter felt small, that numbness he once hated nowhere in sight. “I want to be a hero, but—“”

“You are.” Thor’s voice was stern, adamant.

“I killed a man today.”

“So did we,” Thor argued. His smile was gone. He shifted, turning so he could face Peter. “Maybe you should redefine what you see as a hero. Every one of us has taken a life. Some more than others, but I see it in your eyes, Parker, the way you look at them, at Stark, Banner, and the others. They’re your heroes.”

“Yeah.” They always have been.

“You saved a child today. You made the decision to save her life over that of someone’s who was already lost.” Thor grabbed Peter’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m pretty sure that’s why Mjolnir deemed you worthy.”

Peter looked at the hammer sitting on the table, he tapped it with his foot. He didn’t really see why being willing to take a life would make him worthy, but he wasn’t about to question a god. Or his hammer.

“I don’t want to kill again.”

“I hope you never have to, Peter Parker, but I think you should be prepared that you might.”

“Will it get easier?”

“It shouldn’t.”

Aunt May arrived then, her eyes rimmed in red, her hair a mess, and he didn’t realize how much he really needed one of her hugs until she crossed the room, pushed Thor Odinson God of Thunder out of the way and wrapped Peter in her arms.

“You are never leaving the apartment again.”

“I’m okay, May.”

“I’ll get a leash. People use them on kids now. I’ve seen them do it.”

“Barely a scratch on me, I swear.”

“They even come with little backpack things, like a dog or monkey or something. I’m getting you one of those.”

“I love you, May.”

“I love you, too, but I’m serious.”

* * *

Peter was still stuck in a routine, still living from day to day, still flipping the coin, unsure where it would land. Only these days it felt like it was landing on heads more often than not. Tony texted him regularly, called on occasion, so did Happy, and Thor surprisingly (once Tony set him up with a phone and Peter showed him how to use it.)

He went on patrol, made sure to give Happy his report.

“Short and simple, kid. I don’t need a play by play, just give me the Cliff Notes version and let me know you’re not bleeding to death.”

He made time for May, made sure he was home on time to make curfew. Mostly.

“Stark said he could make a leash with a little spider backpack.”

“I was three minutes late.”

“He said he’d even make it red and blue.”

He went to decathlon practice, did his homework, stopped bank robberies, and played video games. Some nights Ned would spend the night and they’d scarf down take out and build Legos. Other nights they’d google how to treat a burn and beg Tony not to tell May when he’d call demanding to know how bad.

“Seriously, kid. FRIDAY’s programmed to tell me when you’re being stupid.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Then why are you googling it?”

“…”

“Exactly. Send me a pic and I’ll decide if we need to call May.”

All in all, things were getting better. He was getting better.

Growing up might not mean you make less mistakes and being a hero didn’t necessarily mean he was going to get to save everyone.

But he was learning.

Learning to appreciate the little things that made him happy, like May’s obsession with Pinterest recipes, Ned’s steadily improving ability to talk to the Avengers without drooling, or Tony’s steadfast refusal to acknowledge that he might actually be getting old.

“Every single gray hair on my head is because of you, Parker.”

Then of course, there was the look on Flash’s face when Ned oh so casually showed him a picture of Peter holding Mjolnir above his head, Thor and Tony Stark laughing in the background.

“Holy shit.”


End file.
